IC-NRLF 


LIZETTE 

145    QL43  WOODWORTH 

REESE 


SPICEWOOD 


The  NORMAN,  REMINGTON  CO. 
i   9  *   * 


SPICEWOOD 


SPICEWOOD  BY  LIZETTE 
WOODWORTH     REESE 


Second  Printing 


BALTIMORE 

THE  NORMAN,  REMINGTON  CO. 
MDCCCCXXI 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
THE  NORMAN,  REMINGTON  CO. 


TO 

MY    MOTHER 


The  thanks  of  the  author  are  due  to  the 
publishers  of  Scribners,  Harper  s,  The 
Smart  Set,  The  Forum,  The  Sonnet,  The 
Midland,  The  Bookman  and  Contem 
porary  Verse  for  permission  to  include  in 
this  collection  the  poems  which  first  ap 
peared  in  these  maaazines 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SPICEWOOD    ......          9 

THE  COMMON  LOT 10 

A  WET   SPELL      .         .         .         .         .         n 
ARRAIGNMENT  .         .         .         .         .         .12 

WISE 13 

TRIUMPH         ......     14 

A  MARKET  SONG  .....         15 

OLD  HOUSES     ......     16 

A  BLACKBERRY  RAIN     .         .         ,         .         17 
HAWORTH  PARSONAGE       .         .         .         .18 

CHLOE  TO  AMARYLLIS     .         .         .         .         19 

TANKLE-TINKLE-TANK        .         .         .         .20 

THE  WOOD  THRUSH     .         .         .         .         21 

LILAC  DUSK     ......     22 

THE  THORN  TREES  OF  HUNTINGDON     .         23 

To  MYSELF 25 

WRITTEN  IN  A  SONG  BOOK    ...         26 
ODORS  .     27 

DROUGHT 28 

ELLEN   HANGING   CLOTHES        .         .         .29 
A  CAROL       ......         30 

A  WAR  MEMORY 31 

LILACS 32 

A  VIOLIN  AT  DUSK 34 

[7] 


Contents 

A  GIRL'S  SONG     .... 

LIKE  WIND  BEHIND  THE  WALL 

AN  AUTUMN  DAY 

HER  ANSWER  .... 

THE  GOOD  JOAN  .... 

THE  LITTLE  SHOE  . 

QUINCE  TREES      .... 

THE  RECTOR   .... 

FLAGS  

To  TIME 

DAFFODILS     ..... 
JOCK  A  TERRIER 

NOT  I 

AT  FIRST  .  .         . 

THE  FOG      ....«, 

To  MY  MOTHER  I  . 

To  MY  MOTHER  II       ... 

CYNTHIA'S  SONG 

FOR  AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SAD  SONGS 

THE  LOAD       .... 

CHESTNUT  HILL  .... 

A  PICTURE       .... 

HER  SON 

His  MOTHER  IN  HER  HOOD  OF  BLUE 

PRESCIENCE 

POSSESSIONS      .... 
IT  Is  THE  TIME  IN  HUNTINGDON  . 

[81 


SPICEWOOD 

RAISE  God  that  of  a  surety  it  is  spring! 

For  out  in  the  old  field  there  starts  to 
bloom 

A    spicewood    bush,    that    frail    but 

golden  thing; 
A  little  light  brought  into  a  great  room; 
Or  coins  held  tight  in  a  strict,  careful  hand, 
For  fear  they  may  be  lost  or  spent  too  soon. 
Blown  full  of  wind,  this  stretch  of  humble  land, 
Where  comes  the  Year,  through  the  pale  afternoon, 
Over  this  fire  of  fagots  in  the  grass- 
That  but  a  while  ago  he  set  aflare — 
To  warm  his  chilled  young  body  for  a  space. 
The  country  folk,  who  plodding  houseward  pass, 
See  but  some  neighbor's  lad  dim  stooping  there — 
Would  he  but  turn  and  show  his  wistful  face! 


[9] 


THE  COMMON  LOT 

T  AM  so  little  that  the  gods  go  by, 

•••     And  leave  me  to  my  house,  my  garden  plot, 

My  clump  of  jonquils  in  a  windy  spot; 

I  tend  the  herbs;  I  look  up  at  the  sky. 

As  great  a  thing  am  I  as  e'er  drew  breath — 

The  grey,  hushed  steps  of  them  that  bore  from  here 

My  lovely  ones  still  sound  within  mine  ear — 

Yea,  great  enough  to  have  been  hurt  by  Death! 

Nothing  I  reckon  of  the  pomps  of  men; 

I  am  too  little  for  a  sword,  a  crown, 

Or  any  purples  that  the  kings  begirt; 

Out  in  the  spring  my  jonquils  blow  again, 

Yellow  and  windy  as  the  lights  of  town — 

But  I  would  die,  I  am  so  hurt,  so  hurt ! 


[10] 


A  WET  SPELL 

ONE  star;  the  dusk;  a  scrap  of  rain. 
A  little  sad,  alone, 
Out  of  the  wet  old  gardens  blown, 
The  scent  of  mint  pricks  at  the  pane. 

And  market  carts  go  by, 
Into  a  large,  soft  sky, 
Of  grey,  of  ochre,  too; 
Dully  they  go  their  way, 
Past  file  of  houses  rainy  grey, 
A  file  of  blue. 

One  spout  is  quick  and  sweet, 

One  broken  and  high ; 

Their  poignancies  fill  all  the  country  street- 

The  ache  of  old  regret, 

Down  the  thin  wet — 

Into  the  large,  soft  sky, 

The  market  carts  drip  by. 


w 


ARRAIGNMENT 

HAT  wage,  what  guerdon,  Life,  asked  I  of 
you? 


Brooches;  old  houses;  yellow  trees  in  fall; 

A  gust  of  daffodils  by  a  grey  wall; 

Books;  small  lads'  laughter;  song  at  drip  of  dew? 

Or  said  I,  "Make  me  April.     I  would  go, 

Night-long,  day-long,  down  the  gay  little  grass, 

And  therein  see  myself  as  in  a  glass; 

There  is  none  other  weather  I  would  know?" 

Content  was  I  to  live  like  any  flower, 

Sweetly  and  humbly;  dream  each  season  round 

The  blossomy  things  that  serve  a  girl  for  bread, 

Inviolate  against  the  bitter  hour. 

You  poured  my  dreams  like  water  on  the  ground : 

I  think  it  would  be  best  if  I  were  dead. 


[12] 


WISE 

AN  apple  orchard  smells  like  wine; 
A  succory  flower  is  blue; 
Until  Grief  touched  these  eyes  of  mine, 
Such  things  I  never  knew. 

And  now  indeed  I  know  so  plain 

Why  one  would  like  to  cry 
When  spouts  are  full  of  April  rain — 

Such  lonely  folk  go  by! 

So  wise — so  wise — that  my  tears  fall 
Each  breaking  of  the  dawn; 

That  I  would  run  to  tell  you  all — 
But  you  are  dead  and  gone. 


[13] 


TRIUMPH 

HEART'S  measure  gave  I.     Is  it  all  forgot? 
Winds  cannot  blow  or  beat  it  into  dust, 
Or  waters  cover  it,  or  moth  and  rust 
Corrupt  it  into  aught  that  it  was  not. 
For  what  is  more  remembered  than  the  spring? 
The  scarlet  tulips  running  through  the  grass 
By  a  wet  wall,  and  gone  with  but  Alas? 
(I  know  not  how  I  know  this  old,  old  thing). 
How  now,  poor  one,  that  loved  me  for  a  space  ? 
Mine  is  the  triumph  of  the  tulip  flower; 
My  ruined  April  will  not  let  you  by ; 
To  east  my  laughter,  and  to  west  my  face ; 
Housed  with  you  ever,  down  some  poignant  hour, 
There  drifts  the  scrap  of  music  that  was  I. 


A  MARKET  SONG 

WHAT'S  to  sell  in  town  to-day? 
What's  to  sell  in  town? 
Golden,  golden  daffodils, 
Blowing  up  and  down 

Chanty  plucked  them  in  the  dusk, 

Phyllis  in  the  dew; 
The  rosy  girls  of  Huntingdon 

Plucked  them  for  me  and  you. 

Withered  women  sell  them  now 
From  many  a  black  old  cart; 

They  sell  us  golden  daffodils 
For  easing  of  the  heart. 

Three  handfuls  mine  of  that  bright  stuff; 

One  for  myself  I  save; 
One  for  a  friend  of  many  a  year; 

One  for  my  mother's  grave. 


[15] 


OLD  HOUSES 

/~\LD  loveliness,  set  in  the  country  wind, 

^^      Or  down  some  vain  town  road  the  careless 

tread, 

Like  hush  of  candles  lighted  for  the  dead, 
That  look  of  yours,  half  seeing  and  half  blind. 
Still  do  you  strain  at  door,  but  we  come  not, 
The  little  maids,  the  lads,  bone  of  your  bone ; 
In  some  sad  wise,  you  keep  the  dusk  alone, 
Old  loveliness,  a  many  a  day  forgot. 
But  no;  behind  each  weather  do  you  pass, 
The  garnered  poignancies  of  all  the  springs: 
At  some  girl's  belt  in  Lent  the  jonquils  start; — 
But,  oh,  their  like  in  your  old  windy  grass! 
Then  are  we  quick  with  tears,  rememberings; 
Once  more,  once  more,  are  gathered  to  your  heart! 


[16] 


A  BLACKBERRY  RAIN 

THE  weather  deals  in  exquisite  wares, 
Like  laneside  brambles  all  a-row; 
A  hundred  small  and  gusty  airs, 

That  up  and  down  the  country  blow. 

And  of  a  sudden  a  flaw  of  rain, 
A  handful  of  frail  silver  thrown 

Across  the  sun  now  and  again; 
A  scrap  of  little  music  blown 

About  a  world  all  palely  sweet, 
From  sky  to  sky  in  fragile  white, 

Whose  folk  fare  gravely  down  the  street 
As  though  they  walked  in  candlelight. 

Oh  love,  tuck  up  your  skirts  and  go 
Out  to  the  bramble-scented  land, — 

The  brambles  in  a  cloudy  row — 

With  your  true  lover  hand  in  hand! 

For  shall  we  mind  a  slap  of  rain  ? 

A  mist  of  sound  from  sky  to  sky? 
A  little  music  at  the  pane 

That  in  a  moment  passes  by? 

Oh  love,  and  love,  at  end  of  May, 
These  fair  white  sprigs  a  many  a  one! 

Come  pluck  them  as  we  make  our  way 
Along  the  roads  to  Huntingdon. 

[17] 


HAWORTH  PARSONAGE 

A  NARROW,  old,  scarred  house,  set  in  a  stare 
-*  *•     At  the  old  graves  that  crumble  to  its  door; 
You  cannot  think  it  ever  knew  of  yore 
An  April  weather,  or  a  thing  so  fair 
As  the  small  lantern  of  a  daffodil 
Swung  down  the  silver  windings  of  the  rain, 
But  as  a  rumor  blown  along  the  pane, 
That  "by  it  went,  and  left  it  vacant  still. 
Deep-memoried  it  stands,  as  in  a  gust 
Of  yesterdays,  that  beat  about  it  all — 
To  some  poor  poignancy  of  music  thinned — 
A  moment  tears,  then  laughter  gone  to  dust! 
There,  of  a  sudden,  beyond  the  churchyard  wall, 
The  three  hushed  sisters,  passing  through  the  wind ! 


CHLOE  TO  AMARYLLIS 

THAT  you  are  poor,  that  I  grow  old, 
It  matters  not.     Our  battles  hold. 
The  lovely,  undisturbed  things 
Are  left  for  our  rememberings. 

Kings'  houses;  graves  out  on  the  downs; 
Shop  windows  in  great  ancient  towns; 
The  rooks  tossed  up  the  rosy  sky 
Out  of  the  vicarage  garden  high; 
The  minster  tower  poignant  with  years 
Breaking  the  grey  dusk  into  tears. 

Scraps  of  old  music  dewy-clear 
Haunt  us  each  turning  of  the  year; 
When  fields  are  colored  like  a  stone, 
A  thought  of  April  can  atone; 
Of  cowslip  flowers  golden  small 
Under  a  windy  village  wall. 

That  you  are  poor,  and  I  grow  old! 
But  memories  keep;  but  battles  hold; 
The  footspace  snatched  from  quaking  mire ; 
From  dying  dreams  the  undying  fire; 
And  when  we  trod  the  perilous  land, 
The  god  all  ready  to  our  hand. 

[19] 


TANKLE-TINKLE-TANK 

THE  rector's  attic  window  is  a  light, 
Set  high  on  shelf  for  all  the  folk  to  see ; 
His  garden's  windy-dim  as  it  can  be, 
Where  grow  tall  flags,  some  purple  and  some  white. 
The  next  house,  too,  holds  one  pane  clearly  red ; 
Three  roofs  beyond,  the  vane's  a  rosy  flare; 
Milk-heavy,  slow,  through  the  exquisite  air, 
The  cows  go  tankling-tinkling  to  the  shed. 
Lost  loveliness  is  broken  down  the  wind; 
Lost  laughters  fleet  along  the  blur  of  wall; — 
The  cows  go  tankling  to  the  barnyard  near; — 
And  cloudy-pale,  the  shaken  flowers  behind, 
The  rector  sees,  through  tears  that  aching  fall, 
His  little  daughter,  dead  this  many  a  year. 


[20] 


THE  WOOD  THRUSH 

DARK  in  the  hollow; 
Light  on  the  hill ; 
Mallows  in   the  grey  yards, 
Rosy-lipped   and  still. 
Hush,  hush! 

From  his  closet  in  the  dew, 
Hark  to  the  thrush! 

Of  what  his  singing? 

Camelot,  Rome? 

Old  houses  in  the  wind? 

Candlelight,  home? 

Yea,  nay! 

And  of  my  early  love, 

Gone  many  a  day. 


[21] 


LILAC  DUSK 

WHAT  ghost  of  an  old  room  comes,  goes  at 
will, 

Shaped  there  before  you  to  your  tired  sight? 
Is  it  kind-ceilinged,  drenched  with  yellowy  light, 
A  jug  of  flowering  herbs  upon  the  sill? 
What  part  of  me  drifts  thinly  back  to  you, 
Like  scent  of  rainy  grass  blown  to  and  fro? 
A  succory-colored  gown  praised  long  ago? 
A  turn  of  head  ?    A  wistful  word  or  two? 
This  lilac  dusk,  when  you  unlock  your  door — 
How  sad  a  sound  the  little  business  makes — 
All  these  and  more!    To  a  far  loveliness  grown, 
Your  town  below  seems  like  a  jeweled  shore, 
The  sky  a  lustrous  sea  that  on  it  breaks. 
An  ache  comes  to  the  room.    You  are  alone. 


[22] 


THE  THORN-TREES  OF  HUNTINGDON 

THE  old  thorn-trees  of  Huntingdon, 
Oh,  white  they  blow  again ! 
Oh,  white  they  blow  in  Huntingdon, 
Down  an  old  crooked  lane! 

In  Huntingdon,  in  Huntingdon! 

I  swear,  by  high  and  low, 
That  you  will  find  their  lovely  like 

None  other  place  you  go. 

The  Old  York  Road  looks  rare  indeed; 

A  saint's  way  is  it  now; 
In  white  to  east,  in  white  to  west, 

With  many  a  jeweled  bough. 

A  way  for  Peter,  James  and  John, 

All  gravely  down  to  pass; 
Or  Thomas  Kempen  with  a  book 

Across  the  bright  young  grass. 

Or  austere  kings  in  withered  gold, 

As  down  a  castle-yard, 
With  clanking  reins  that  make  the  air 

A  music  clear  and  hard. 

[23] 


The  Thorn-Trees  of  Huntingdon 

Or  else  my  mother,  coming  soft, 
Her  skirts  held  from  the  wet, 

To  pluck  an  apronful  of  bloom 
In  her  old  house  to  set. 

For  the  green  bowl  a  sprig  or  two 
To  deck  some  window  shelf ; 

And  a  great  handful  for  the  jug 
Of  blue  and  ancient  delf. 

I  run  out  to  the  Old  York  Road; 

I  count  them  one  by  one; 
Five  in  the  west,  four  in  the  east* 

Nine  thorn-trees  in  the  sun. 

So  shall  I  run  when  I  am  dead, 
And  wrapped  in  dust  away, 

To  count  the  thorns  of  Huntingdon 
Upon  a  morn  in  May. 


[24] 


TO  MYSELF 

GIRL,  I  am  tired  of  blowing  hot  and  cold  ; 
Of  being  that  with  that,  and  this  with  this ; 
A  loosened  leaf  no  bough  would  ever  miss, 
At  the  wind's  whim  betwixt  the  sky  and  mould. 
Of  wearing  masks.    Oh,  I  would  rend  them  all 
Into  the  dust  that  by  my  door  is  blown  ; 
Of  my  old  secret  bare  me  to  the  bone, 
Myself  at  last,  none  other!     I  would  call: — 
"I  had  a  lover  once.    This  is  the  face 
He  lauded  April-high  and  April-deep, 
As  fair  a  flower  as  hers  of  Camelot; 
And  yet  he  loved  it  but  an  April's  space. 
This  is  myself  indeed.    Now  hear  me  weep. 
I  had  a  lover  once,  but  he  forgot." 


WRITTEN  IN  A  SONG-BOOK 

A    SONG  is  such  a  curious  thing, 
•*  *•     To  last  beyond  a  day  in  spring; 
It  comes  from  low ;  it  comes  from  high ; 
Is  all  of  earth,  and  all  of  sky. 

From  Laughter  set  at  tavern  door, 
Round,  rosy,  with  his  cranks  of  yore; 
From  Grief,  struck  down  upon  the  clod, 
Crying  his  wild  heart  out  to  God. 

Like  hawthorn  whitening  in  the  grass, 

To  haunt  the  folk  that  by  it  pass  ; 

Like  sheep-bells  tinkling  small  and  clear 

In  star-lit  fields  at  end  of  year; 

Like  dusk-pink  silks;  like  Tyrian  gold, 

A  little  verse  remembered,  old. 

And  while  you  polish  line  by  line — 
For  though  so  frail,  it  must  be  fine — 
Ere  it  turns  lovely,  as  it  must, 
A  hundred  towns  tumble  to  dust  I 


[26] 


ODORS 

A   FLOWER  betrays  you — you,  the  blithe  and 

•*•  *•     brave; 

A  succory  blossom  down  some  path  we  knew; 

For  being  lovely,  it  was  wholly  you ; 

Ever  it  runs  betwixt  me  and  your  grave. 

Or  else  a  song;  perhaps,  in  broken  wise, 

Shrilled  in  the  dusk  from  passing  market  wain, 

A  word  of  spring,  of  white  quince  in  the  rain; 

From  my  day's  task  I  look  up  to  your  eyes. 

But,  oh,  the  scent  of  smoke  across  the  air, 

Blown  through  the  yellowy,  phantom  trees  of  town  I 

Of  grass  against  a  skirt  out  in  the  sun! 

Of  an  old  cupboard  glistening  up  a  stair ! 

I  think  sometime  that  I  will  sit  me  down 

And  weep  my  heart  quite  out,  and  so  be  done. 


[27] 


DROUGHT 

SILENCE— and  in  the  air 
A  stare. 

One  bush,  the  color  of  rust, 
Stands  in  the  endless  lane; 
And  farther  on,  hot,  hard  of  pane, 
With  roof  shrunk  black, 
Headlong  against  the  sky 
A  house  is  thrust; 
Betwixt  the  twain, 
Like  meal  poured  from  a  sack, 
Stirless,  foot  high — 
The  dust. 


ELLEN  HANGING  CLOTHES 

THE  maid  is  out  in  the  clear  April  light 
Our  store  of  linen  hanging  up  to  dry; 
On  clump  of  box,  on  the  small  grass  there  lie 
Bits  of  thin  lace,  and  broidery  blossom-white. 
And  something  makes  tall  Ellen — gesture,  look — 
Or  else  but  that  most  ancient,  simple  thing, 
Hanging  the  clothes  upon  a  day  in  spring, 
A  Greek  girl  cut  out  some  old  lovely  book. 
The  wet  white  flaps ;  a  tune  just  come  in  mind, 
The  sound  brims  the  still  house.    Our  flags  are  out, 
Blue  by  the  box,  blue  by  the  kitchen  stair  ; 
Betwixt  the  two  she  trips  across  the  wind, 
Her  warm  hair  blown  all  cloudy-wise  about, 
Slim  as  the  flags,  and  every  whit  as  fair. 


[29] 


A  CAROL 

JOSEPH  was  an  old  man; 
Simple  and  tall  was  he, 
Who  went  about  in  Bethlehem 
To  find,  if  it  might  be, 

A  little  space  beneath  a  roof, 

For  Jesus  Christ  to  lie, 
Safe,  on  His  tender  Mother's  breast, 

Until  the  dark  went  by. 

He  asked  of  women;  he  asked  of  men; 

He  asked  of  ox  and  ass, 
All  in  a  small,  and  broken  shed, 

Out  in  the  village  grass. 

The  women  said  nay;  the  men  said  nay; 

And  nay  the  great  inn  said; 
There  was  no  otherwhere  to  go 

But  that  ramshackle  shed. 

A  many  a  wind  about  it  blew ; 

Its  roof  was  withered  and  thin; 
Oh,  was  not  that  a  poor  place 

To  house  Christ  Jesus  in? 

[30] 


A  WAR  MEMORY 

(1865) 

GOD  bless  this  house  and  keep  us  all  from  hurt. 
She  led  us  gravely  up  the  straight  long  stair ; 
We  were  afraid;  two  held  her  by  the  skirt, 

One  by  the  hand,  and  so  to  bed  and  prayer. 
How  frail  a  thing  the  little  candle  shone! 

Beneath  its  flame  looked  dim  and  soft  and  high 
The  chair,  the  drawers ;  she  like  a  tall  flower  blown 

In  a  great  space  under  a  shadowy  sky. 
God  bless  us  all  and  Lee  and  Beauregard. — 
Without,  a  soldier  paced,  in  hated  blue, 

The  road  betwixt  the  tents  in  pale  array 
And  our  gnarled  gate.     But  in  the  windy  yard 
White  tulips  raced  along  the  drip  of  dew ; — 
Our  mother  with  her  candle  went  away. 


[31] 


LILACS 

MAYERS,  come  to  Huntingdon 
This  morning  of  the  May; 
Come  out  and  pluck  the  lilac  flower 
That  blows  down  Old  York  Way. 

The  white,  the  purple  lilac  flower, 

That  blows  the  fleet  o'year, 
The  smell  of  the  old  country-side 

Packed  in  the  petals  clear. 

White  lilacs  at  a  windy  wall, 
Like  hymns  for  the  young  dead; 

And  purple  by  the  basketful 
Along  a  tumbled  shed. 

White  lilacs  in  the  rector's  grass, 

As  many  as  you  can  hold ; 
And  purple  fit  for  a  king's  house, 

In  dishes  of  fine  gold. 

The  white,  the  purple  lilac  flower, 

Of  the  fleet  year  a  part; 
Remembered  music  blown  at  dusk 

Into  an  aching  heart. 

[32] 


Lilacs 

To  Huntingdon,  to  Huntingdon, 
Come,  rich  man,  poor  man,  thief; 

A  lilac  blows  but  seven  days; 
A  day  is  very  brief. 

Come  out,  come  out,  good  Maying  folk; 

Come  out  to  Old  York  Lane; 
Scarce  are  you  here,  but  you  must  go ; 

So  pluck,  and  pluck  again. 


[33] 


A  VIOLIN  AT  DUSK 

STUMBLE  to  silence,  all  you  uneasy  things, 
That  pack  the  day  with  bluster  and  with  fret. 
For  here  is  music  at  each  window  set; 
Here  is  a  cup  which  drips  with  all  the  springs 
That  ever  bud  a  cowslip  flower ;  a  roof 
To  shelter  till  the  argent  weathers  break; 
A  candle  with  enough  of  light  to  make 
My  courage  bright  against  each  dark  reproof. 
A  hand's  width  of  clear  gold,  unraveled  out 
The  rosy  sky,  the  little  moon  appears; 
As  they  were  splashed  upon  the  paling  red, 
Vast,  blurred,  the  village  poplars  lift  about. 
I  think  of  young,  lost  things;  of  lilacs;  tears; 
I  think  of  an  old  neighbor,  long  since  dead. 


[341 


A  GIRL'S  SONG 

OH,  I  would  sing!    Oh,  I  would  cry! 
Oh,  I  would  lay  me  down  and  die  1 
There  is  no  lovely  or  strange  thing 
I  would  not  do  this  day  in  spring. 

Why  go  the  sighing  winds  unfurled? 
To  blow  me  to  the  end  of  world. 
Why  bud  the  flowers,  except  that  I 
May  pelt  the  stars  out  of  the  sky? 

Why  drips  the  rain  its  ancient  way? 
To  blot  out  every  yesterday, 
And  gather  time  to  this  one  hour, 
My  golden  thoughts  its  only  dower. 

Why  curves  the  pool  out  in  the  grass? 
To  make  for  me  a  looking-glass, 
Where  I  may  see  how  glad  a  thing 
A  girl  in  love  this  day  in  spring! 


[35] 


LIKE  WIND  BEHIND  THE  WALL 

RUN  to  me,  little  cares;  run,  every  fret 
And  drudgery  that  prick  the  uneasy  light; 
Hold  me  and  hurt  me ;  even  in  the  night 
So  pack  my  dreams,  I  shall  forget — forget. 
Turn  me  into  a  dull,  poor,  careful  thing 
Of  house  and  table-settings — nothing  more; 
A  wisp,  a  shred  of  what  I  was  before, 
Quit  of  the  custom  of  remembering. 
But  no  and  no !     Like  wind  behind  the  wall, 
He  wanders  sighing  down  the  ancient  mold; 
Drifts  through  some  crevice,  with  a  racing  breath 
Of  brambles  blowing  very  fair  and  tall ; 
Sudden  he  bursts  upon  me  as  of  old, 
Marching  triumphant  from  the  doom  of  death! 


[36] 


AN  AUTUMN  DAY 

MORE  wistful  than  a  bough  in  spring, 
More  haunted  than  an  early  star, 
This  day  set  for  remembering, 
In  hushes  where  the  lonely  are. 

Its  painted  windows  down  the  lane — 

The  trees  once  thick  with  plaintive  gold — 

Are  shattered  everyone  in  twain, 

The  fragments  strewn  on  the  grey  mould. 

And  now  the  wind  comes  pouring  through, 
As  in  an  old  house  none  do  keep, 

Not  even  an  ancient  wife  or  two, 
To  sigh,  and  nod,  and  fall  asleep. 


[37] 


HER  ANSWER 

T  AM  so  new  to  lovers ;  hear  me  out. 

•^      For  I  love  jeweled  waters,  and  the  call 

And  rush  of  winds  an  ancient  door  about  ; 

And  flowers  white  or  ochre  by  a  wall  ; 
And  country  windows  plaintive  with  the  west; 

And  I  love  shepherds,  going  gravely  by 
Through  the  worn  light,  each  with  a  lamb  on  breast, 

And  small,  cool  music  tinkling  down  the  sky. 
Now,  who  the  burden  of  this  blame  must  bear? 

That  oft  my  thoughts  of  you  but  coldly  stir? 
Oh,  first  to  Beauty  is  my  fealty  due! 

To  flout  her  of  a  sudden  were  not  fair. 
But  wait  until  I  know  you  not  from  her, 

Until  all  lovelinesses  change  to  you. 


[38] 


THE  GOOD  JOAN 

ALONG  the  thousand  roads  of  France, 
Now  there,  now  here,  swift  as  a  glance, 
A  cloud,  a  mist  blown  down  the  sky, 
Good  Joan  of  Arc  goes  riding  by. 

In  Domremy  at  candlelight, 
The  orchards  blowing  rose  and  white 
About  the  shadowy  houses  lie; 
And  Joan  of  Arc  goes  riding  by 

On  Avignon  there  falls  a  hush, 
Brief  as  the  singing  of  a  thrush 
Across  old  gardens  April-high; 
And  Joan  of  Arc  goes  riding  by. 

The  women  bring  the  apples  in, 
Round  Aries  when  the  long  gusts  begin, 
Then  sit  them  down  to  sob  and  cry; 
And  Joan  of  Arc  goes  riding  by. 

Dim  fall  of  hoofs  down  old  Calais; 
In  Tours  a  flash  of  silver-gray, 
Like  flaw  of  rain  in  a  clear  sky; 
And  Joan  of  Arc  goes  riding  by. 

[39] 


The  Good  Joan 

Who  saith  that  ancient  France  shall  fail, 
A  rotting  leaf  driv'n  down  the  gale? 
Then  her  sons  know  not  how  to  die; 
Then  good  God  dwells  no  more  on  high. 

Tours,  Aries,  and  Domremy  reply  I 
For  Joan  of  Arc  goes  riding  by. 


[40] 


THE  LITTLE  SHOE 

THE  folks  were  at  the  apple-gathering 
Out  in  the  wind.    The  house  was  a  still  place ; 
And  there  along  my  knees  I  hid  my  face. 
For  lo,  amongst  some  toys,  a  crumpled  thing, 
The  poor  weight  of  a  rose,  a  bit  of  red 
A  little  child  had  worn  from  chair  to  chair, 
Long  Aprils  since!     Oh,  more  than  I  could 

bear! 

A  little  child  a  round  of  Aprils  dead ! 
I  had  not  known  till  then  that  I  was  sad ; — 

Old   wharves,   old   streets,    the   sound   of   many 

tears 

Went  keenly  by  me  in  the  daylight's  wane ; 
Yea,  all  the  tears  the  world  had  ever  had ; 

The  cry  of  Mary  aching  down  the  years! — 
I  think  that  I  shall  never  weep  again. 


[41! 


QUINCE  TREES 

TJRIEF,  white,  out  in  the  crooked  lane, 
••-*     My  quince  tree  is  in  blow  again; 
If  I  should  live  out  every  spring, 
I  would  not  know  a  lovelier  thing. 

The  sexton's  wife  has  three  or  more, 
Cloud-like  about  her  gusty  door; 
And  wistful  girls  that  by  them  pass 
May  see  themselves  as  in  a  glass. 

Oh,  everywhere  that  I  do  go 
The  flower  of  quince  is  all  in  blow! 
I  think  of  folk  who  once  were  here, 
But  now  are  gone  a  many  a  year. 

In  that  fair  country  where  they  are, 
Comes  there  a  thought  of  earth  afar, 
Blown  down  the  comely  ways  they  know? — 
Surely  I  think  it  must  be  so. 

All  of  a  sudden  they  start  to  talk 
Of  platters,  books,  a  garden  walk; 
Of  an  old  plaintive  house  set  down 
A  windy  mile  or  so  from  town. 

I  feel  as  sure  as  I  were  there, 
This  day  of  spring  is  in  the  air; 
And  Heaven  is  but  old  Huntingdon, 
With  little  white  trees  in  the  sun. 

[42] 


THE  RECTOR 

A  TALL   man,   stooping,   not   with   years,    but 
books; 

His  eyes  a  trifle  keen,  but  flower-blue, 
A  gusty  ruddiness  about  his  looks, 

And  in  his  voice  a  gusty  something,  too. 
Part  Sussex  he,  so  frank,  some  deem  him  hard; 
Part  Donegal,  and  so  both  warm  and  quaint; 
A  proper  figure  for  a  minster  yard, 

And  yet  too  much  the  man  to  stay  the  saint. 
A  dog,  a  garden  he  loves  with  all  his  heart; 

Each  day  reads  in  his  thumbed  Greek  testament; 
Smokes  a  worn  pipe ;  shares  gay  news  in  the  lane 
With  the  old  fishman  in  his  squeaking  cart  ; 

Then  climbs  to  some  poor  lad,  who,  fever-spent, 
Counts  the  long  moments  till  he  comes  again. 


FLAGS 

A  HAND'S  length  from  the  dust, 
The  kitchen  door  about, 
White,  purple  in  the  gust, 
My  mother's  flags  are  out. 

Spites  go;  dreams  fall  away; 

Clerk's  gold ;  and  bells  of  clown ; 
A  book  soon  has  its  say  ; 

A  king's  house  tumbles  down. 

What  valor  mocks  the  dust? 

What  loveliness  the  rout? — 
There,  in  the  April  gust, 

My  mother's  flags  are  out! 


[44] 


TO  TIME 

(On  a  false  lover.) 

ON  some  grave  afternoon,  in  years  to  be, 
When  I  pass  down  the  withering  country 

walks, 

Will  he  be  but  the  scent  blown  out  the  stalks 
Of  the  wrecked  rose,  and  nothing  more  to  me? 
And  I  that  was? — this  wild  girl  that  am  I — 
But  a  blurred  figure  fleeting  by  the  pane? — 
I  that  do  eat  my  heart  out,  and  am  fain 
To  cast  myself  down  on  the  clods  and  die? — 
But  scent,  but  mist  ?    I  will  not  have  it  so. 
Set  us  twain  fast  in  some  far  weather's  round; 
Press  not  for  me  that  wine  from  vale  or  hill, 
Who  drink,  forgetting  youth  and  yester  go. 
You  dare  not.     I  would  dash  the  cup  to  ground. 
Hurt  me.    That  I  loved  once,  would  I  love  still. 


DAFFODILS 

/T^HERE  is  a  house  builded  of  God, 
-*•       Beyond  the  fret  of  time  or  clod; 
My  mother  and  my  father,  too, 
And  many  another  that  I  knew 

Are  there.     And  many  I  did  not  know, 
Young,  aged,  and  mighty  folk  and  low; 
The  greatest  captains,  clerks  most  small; 
I  cannot  think  to  name  them  all. 

When  April  weathers  by  me  pass, 
And  daffodils  blow  in  the  grass, 
And  girls  go  home  from  Lenten  talks, 
Each  with  a  couple  of  bright  stalks, 

There  comes  a  vision  to  my  mind, 
So  comfortable  and  so  kind; — 
Beyond  the  fret  of  time  or  clod, 
There  is  a  house  builded  of  God. 

Like  music  blown  about  the  sills, 
Innumerable  daffodils; 
All  Aprils  gathered  in  one  hour, 
Lit  with  the  light  of  that  one  flower 

[46] 


Daffodils 

There  golden  stalk  by  golden  stalk 
Rocks  brightly  down  each  garden  walk; 
It  is  a  mist  of  shining  mould; 
It  is  a  world  of  windy  gold. 

And  there  my  mother,  as  she  goes, 
Plucks  her  heart's  fill  of  the  great  rows; 
She  ever  had  a  lack,  a  dearth 
Of  daffodils  upon  the  earth. 

Like  music  blown  about  the  sills, 
Unnumbered  years  of  daffodils! 
My  mother  hath  at  last  enough 
Of  that  same  golden  country  stuff. 


[47] 


JOCK  A  TERRIER 

'  I  ^  HAT  he  was  small,  and  fiery,  and  sweet — 
•*•        How  well  we  know  who  had  him — and  have 

not! 

As  flawless  gentleman  as  one  would  meet 
Outside  a  book,  or  knightly  Camelot. 
Too  fleet  his  days  for  what  he  found  to  do; 

Sharp  war  to  wage  on  strange  folk  loitering  by  ; 
The  care  of  all  the  house,  his  mistress,  too  ; 
Long  wayfarings  beneath  the  country  sky. 
And  now  the  empty  year  remembers  him; 

Mixed  with  all  true  and  simple  things  is  he; — 
And    somehow    with    us    still,    though    he    is 

dead ; — 

With  stars,  and  windy  paths,  and  season's  whim ; 
With  chimney  chronicle  and  village  glee; 
And  all  the  tears  that  ever  will  be  shed. 


[48] 


NOT  I 

T  AM  not  healed  of  grief ;   not  I, 
•*•      Nor  shall  be  till  spring  boughs  forget 
Their  poignancies  down  the  young  sky, 
In  dusks  all  violet. 

Not  I.     Not  till  the  year  has  found 
Some  other  fashion  for  the  rain 

In  old,  thin,  autumn  fields;  its  sound 
Against  a  lonely  pane. 

Not  till  the  worn,  dear,  usual  things — 
Street,  house,  or  even  a  chair,  a  jar — 

Rid  them  of  all  rememberings, 
Grow  strange,  and  cold,  and  far. 

Who  plucks  my  cowslips  in  the  sun? 

Whose  step  fleets  by  the  withered  tree? 
Whose  shadowy,  golden  laughters  run 

Betwixt  my  books  and  me? 

They  have  been  gone  a  thousand  years. 

I  grant  it.    Are  the  deeps  fallen  dry? 
Wears  grief  a  look  not  that  of  tears? — 

Not  I,  indeed,  not  I. 

[49] 


AT  FIRST 

T  AM  so  new  to  tears,  I  do  not  know 

•*•      What  trick  to  use  and  cheat  my  aching  heart; 

What  word  to  speak  and  ease  it  of  the  smart. 

I  think  a  book  may  comfort  me.    Not  so. 

His  voice  reads  on  with  mine ;  the  verse  grows  dim. 

Or  a  green  highway  that  he  never  knew  ? 

Not  so.     Some  whirl  of  petals  down  the  dew — 

It  is  a  road  that  once  I  went  with  him ! 

Sometimes,  in  very  wantonness  of  grief, 

I  look  into  my  mirror  on  the  shelf  ; 

"How  short  a  state  for  April  did  I  keep, 

Whose  face  was  fair  as  uncurled  almond  leaf! — 

Who  said  this  pretty  thing  of  my  lost  self?" 

I  yield  me  then,  and  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep. 


[50] 


FOG 

great  ghosts  of  the  town 
-•-       Up  and  down, 
Each  a  gray,  filmy  thing, 
Go  by. 

Sudden  a  brief,  wet  sky! — 
A  file  of  poplars  vague  with  spring. 

Drips  the  old  garden  there; 

See,  its  torn  edge  about, 

Scarlet,   remote, 

Tulips  flare, 

The  length  of  one  thin  note! — 

And  are  put  out. 


[51] 


TO  MY  MOTHER 

YOU  were  too  exquisite  a  thing  to  hold. 
For  what  am  I  to  bide  with  Beauty's  self, 
Who  know  as  little  of  its  strange,  its  old, 

As  a  plucked  flower  in  cup  upon  a  shelf  ? 
If  I  craved  loveliness — your  laughter  then 

Spilled  music  after  music  on  the  air; 
You  petaled  into  bloom  again,  again, 

In  shop,  or  road,  or  down  some  wistful  stair. 

But  Beauty's  state  is  fleet  as  that  of  gust 
Blown  by  the  door.     The  dead  folk  keep  it  fast, 
Argent,  uncloseted,  secure  with  spring. 

Because  I  weep,  my  head  bowed  to  the  dust, 
Is  not  that  with  your  own  you  walk  at  last, 
But  that  I  am  so  poor,  so  poor  a  thing! 


[52] 


TO  MY  MOTHER 
II 

AH,  this  at  first!    And  yet  right  well  I  see 
That  still  is  Beauty  fast  at  every  door ; 
The  earth  stands  firm ;  the  winds  about  it  pour  ; 
There  is  no  withering  of  any  tree. 
I  see  that  yester  lurks  in  old,  in  new, 
A  delicate  wraith  each  loveliness  behind; 
Each  flower  owns  some  fair  double  of  its  kind ; 
I  pluck  not  one,  but  twain,  of  the  same  blue. 
For  grief  has  scourged  me  into  vision  clear. — 
What  grave  and  splendid  highways  by  me  run ! 
What  unremembered  white  at  village  wall ! 
What  sweet  looks  get   I   from   each  wayfarer 

here!— 

Since  Beauty  lasts,  and  yesters  everyone, 
So  near  you  come,  you  are  not  dead  at  all! 


[53] 


CYNTHIA'S  SONG 

AS  I  came  down  the  Old  York  Road 
Saint  John's  began  to  ring, 
Across  the  Dead  Folk  in  the  grass, 
The  wide  new  dusk  of  spring. 

Each  window  was  a  half-blown  flower, 

The  pool  beneath  the  hedge 
Looked  like  a  scrap  of  Tyrian  gold 

Dropped  thinly  in  the  sedge. 

I  think  that  never  in  the  world 

Blew  there  a  tree  so  white 
As  the  wild  cherry  by  the  wall, 

So  lonely  to  the  sight. 

As  I  came  down  the  Old  York  Road 

Not  any  soul  was  near, 
Except  two  lovers  going  by 

Within  the  fleet  of  year. 

Oh,  windows  flowering  in  the  dusk! 

Oh,  pool  of  fragile  gold! 
Oh  bough,  fair  as  my  early  love, 

Gone  with  the  dreams  of  old! 

Saint  John's  grey  bell,  that  grieving  bell. 

Struck  out  of  the  frail  sky 
Such  gusts  of  old,  lost  things — I  felt 

That  I  must  weep  or  die. 

[54J 


FOR  AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SAD  SONGS 

IN  Tyre,  when  the  leaf  grew  brown, 
Girls  sighed,  and  fell  remembering 
How  golden  blew  the  iris  down 

The  sea-lanes  on  a  day  in  spring; 
Across  the  little  blur  of  sun 

All  Camelot  went  a  wistful  thing. 

Ours  is  that  note  of  long  ago, 

Into  the  crumbling  weather  thrust. 

Tall,  fragrant  gardens  that  we  know 
Await  their  tombs  out  in  the  gust; 

And  maidens  hold  too  fleet  a  state; 
And  towers  are  broken  into  dust. 

Within  this  book  blows  autumn  still; 

These  lovely  sighing  voices  all 
A  memorable  music  spill 

Along  some  wet  old  country  wall; 
Round  poignant  houses,  lit  with  dusk, 

It  drifts  like  April  at  the  fall. 

Here  two  by  two  these  lovers  pass, 
With  brooding  eyes,  that  seek  again 

Some  lost  flower  in  the  frayed  long  grass, 
Or  the  white  apricot  up  the  lane; 

Here  are  they  pent  at  end  of  year 
In  the  small  silver  of  the  rain. 

[55] 


THE  LOAD 

\T  7 HAT  bitterness  of  grief  is  mine  to  bear? 

That  nothings  last.    Beloved,  you  are  dead. 
That  shops  are  lit  at  dusk;  that  in  the  square 
Folk  buy  them  pots  of  hyacinths  white  or  red. 
If  but  one  thing  were  different ;  were  there  two, 

Not  seven  poplars  down  the  roadway  set, 
And  black  and  broken,  not  silver-green  and  new, 

I  think  indeed  I  would  forget — forget. 
That  nothings  last!    A  house,  a  field,  a  street, 

Wedged  fast  in  fast,  and  unremembering  ways. 
Oh,  these  poor  littles  will  I  from  me  thrust, 
And  forth  to  some  strange  other  spring-time  fleet; 

Else  fling  myself  upon  these  April  days, 
And  with  my  wild  hands  tear  them  into  dust! 


[56] 


CHESTNUT  HILL 

T  KNEW  an  old  house  by  a  wood, 
•••      A  very  lovely  thing; 
There  flag-flowers  blew;  and  it  was  good 
To  come  that  way  in  spring. 

But  it  is  dust  a  many  a  day; 

A  weed-thick  mound  appears, 
Where  the  thrush  shook  the  dusk  of  May 

Into  a  gust  of  tears. 

Even  a  king's  house  tumbles  down; 

A  roof  is  soon  forgot; 
So  was  it  once  in  Corinth  town, 

So  once  in  Camelot. 


[57] 


A   PICTURE 

BEAUTY,  what  have  we  here?    A  spare,  old 
street 

Rich  with  mid-afternoon.    A  hawker  there — 
His  voice  a  gusty  brawl  along  the  air, 
Mixed  with  his  creaking  cart  and  stamp  of  feet — 
Sells  April  wares,    A  woman  bent  and  sad 
Now  haggles  o'er  a  pot  of  windy  gold; 
Now,  with  her  poor  coins  slipped  from  out  her  hold, 
Lifts  it  high  in  the  sun  with  fingers  glad, 
And  shrills  her  bargain  to  the  neighbors  all. 
A  straggly  bough,  across  the  fences  hoar, 
A  handful  of  its  green  and  silver  spills. 
The  cart  creaks  out  the  street.    A  blur  of  wall 
The  houses  stand.    And  last,  still  at  her  door, 
A  woman  with  a  pot  of  daffodils. 


[58] 


HER  SON 

T  S  there  a  shop  where  he  comes  not  to  buy  ? 
••-     Or  any  book  he  stoops  not  down  to  read  ? 
Or  song  he  sings  not?    Or  a  golden  weed 
In  a  field's  corner  that  he  draws  not  nigh? 
Each  word  stirs  up  a  hundred  echoes  dim 
Of  one  he  said.    Like  scent  of  dusk  on  stair, 
Each  day  spills  some  new  memory  down  the  air, 
And  each  night  roofs  another  dream  of  him. 
What  of  a  road  where  he  has  never  come  ? 
All  ways  have  him  for  house  and  host  at  last. 
If  they  be  bare,  I  think  of  his  white  spring ; 
If  they  be  not,  then  am  I  stricken  dumb. 
Their  ache  of  fairness  makes  his  presence  fast, 
More  certain  of  my  old  remembering. 


[59] 


HIS  MOTHER  IN  HER  HOOD  OF  BLUE 

WHEN  Jesus  was  a  little  thing, 
His  mother,  in  her  hood  of  blue, 
Called  to  Him  through  the  dusk  of  spring : 
"Jesus,  my  Jesus,  where  are  you?" 

Caught  in  a  gust  of  whirling  bloom, 
She  stood  a  moment  at  the  door, 

Then  lit  the  candle  in  the  room, 
In  its  pink  earthen  bowl  of  yore. 

The  little  Jesus  saw  it  all; — 

The  blur  of  yellow  in  the  street; 

The  fair  trees  by  the  tumbling  wall; 
The  shadowy  other  lads,  whose  feet 

Struck  a  quick  noise  from  out  the  grass ; 

He  saw,  dim  in  the  half-lit  air, 
As  one  sees  folk  within  a  glass, 

His  mother  with  her  candle  there. 

Jesus!    Jesus! 

When  He  a  weary  man  became, 
I  think,  as  He  went  to  and  fro, 

[60] 


His  Mother  in  Her  Hood  of  Blue 

He  heard  her  calling  just  the  same 
Across  that  dusk  so  long  ago. 

Jesus! 

For  men  were  tired  that  had  been  bold  ;- 
And  strange  indeed  this  should  befall- 

One  day  so  hot,  one  day  so  cold — 
But  mothers  never  change  at  all. 

Jesus! 


[61] 


PRESCIENCE 

OLD  women  think  of  old  roofs,  and  the  things 
That  made  these  comely  in  the  ancient  sun ; 
Old  men  think  of  their  wars,  their  wayfarings  done. 
Both  of  first  love ;  of  fair,  dispersed  springs. 
Old  women  and  old  men — God  rest  them  all! — 
To  hear  the  dark,  slow  waters  lap  about; 
To  see  their  last  of  candle  spluttering  out; — 
It  is  too  poor  an  ending  to  befall. 
But  ours  this  golden  earth  from  sky  to  sky ; 
And  all  my  thoughts  of  you,  and  yours  of  me; 
About  us  memorable  April  set. — 
Sudden  I  feel  the  fleet  years  tumbling  by; 
Age  stares  at  me  behind  each  rosy  tree! — 
Oh,  snatch  me  to  your  heart!    I  would  forget. 


[62] 


POSSESSIONS 

A  N  old  and  quiet  house  set  down 
•*•  *•     A  windy  field  or  two  from  town. 

And  a  great  clump  of  lavender, 
All  day  with  cross,  small  bees  astir. 

Larkspur,  hot-blue  as  with  a  sting; 
And  mint,  so  brief  and  sharp  a  thing. 

Tall,  well-thumbed  books  upon  a  shelf; 
A  green,  white-flowered  jug  of  delf. 

Old  friends,  who  from  the  village  walk 
On  Sunday  afternoons,  to  talk 

Of  the  new  shop;  the  guests  from  town; 
The  wind  that  blew  the  apples  down. 


They  go;  the  dusk  comes  from  afar, 
Like  music  blown  from  out  a  star. 

Those  Others  drift  across  the  dew; 
My  early  love — and  you — and  you! 


IT  IS  THE  TIME  IN  HUNTINGDON 

T  T  is  the  time  in  Huntingdon, 
•••      When  spicewood  boughs  are  quick  to  blow, 
Like  gold  of  Tarshish  down  the  sun, 
Beyond  the  roofs,  a  field  or  so. 

Rude,  potent,  scriptural  the  scent; 

Long  since  was  such  or  such  a  one; 
In  lean  tall  jars  was  spikenard  pent 

Down  the  mad  quays  of  Babylon. 

And  some  wayfarer,  loving  spring, 

And  that  wild,  profitable  gold, 
Plucks  sprig  or  two  of  the  young  thing 

For  some  grey  window-shelf  to  hold. 

I  am  not  there  to  see  them  blow, 

The  spicewood  boughs  across  the  wind, 

Beyond  the  roofs  a  field  or  so, 

Yet  fast  they  keep  within  my  mind. 

Snatched  out  of  March  and  the  gust's  brawl, 
They  light  my  house  with  Huntingdon; — 

That  simple  yellow  by  the  wall, 
Fit  for  a  Song  of  Solomon. 


I 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


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WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


MAR  24  1933 

8Jun'54MQ 


458943 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


